


A Song Only You Can Hear

by Berty



Series: A Fit Of Fashion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Clothing Porn, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John adores Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a Posh Boy, Sherlock is a Princess, Silliness and Sexytimes, Stylish Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 04:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: "Don't you have any normal people clothes?" John asked from his armchair one day.That was his first mistake...





	A Song Only You Can Hear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/gifts).



“Don’t you have any normal people clothes?” John asked from his armchair one day, watching Sherlock slide his elegant limbs into the latest in a long line of dark, tailored suits (midnight blue this time, apparently, not dark navy.)

Yes, he was beautiful. Yes, any fashion house would fall over itself to get a model as gorgeous as him. And yes, John was a lucky, lucky bastard, and he thanked his stars for it every day. But he was also a simple man and he thought that sometimes Sherlock stood out, like a peacock in a chicken shed. What was wrong with just being the best-looking cockerel? To mix a metaphor, he certainly didn’t need to gild the lily.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave John an appraising once over. “Would you describe your ensemble today as _normal people_?” he enquired, settling the cuffs of his shirt so they just peeked below the edge of his jacket sleeves.

John thought about this for a moment. It was a nice day, the sun was shining, London was doing its thing outside the window of 221B Baker Street and currently had no need of the world’s only consulting detective and his sidekick – he had time to consider his response.

“Yes,” he said decisively after due contemplation.

“Then no, I don’t have any normal people clothes,” Sherlock deadpanned. “Nor do I require any, if this is some early foray into Christmas gift ideas. At the top of the list of things I do not require are ugly jumpers, shirts with checks and socks described as ‘cotton rich’.”

Laughing at the distress on Sherlock’s face at the horrific thought of mixed fibres, John got up from his chair and pressed a quick, fond kiss to his cheek. “You’re such a princess,” he told him. “It wouldn’t kill you to wear something other than Saville Row, once in a while. Even your dressing gowns are pretentious! And who needs more than one dressing gown?”

Sherlock hummed a disgruntled noise and turned to the mirror over the fireplace to check his hair. “So what do these normal people wear?”

“T-shirts, chinos, shorts, trainers, jumpers, shirts that fit them…”

“My shirts fit me!” Sherlock replied to John’s reflection, clearly affronted. “I have them tailored to my specifications…”

“Exactly!” John said, pointing a finger at his posh git of a boyfriend. “That’s not what normal people do! They go into town and buy one off the peg, in their size. And normal people don’t wear a suit every day!”

“You’re exaggerating to make a point. I don’t wear a suit _every_ day,” Sherlock muttered, “I only wear one on…

“…the days you can be bothered to change out of your pyjamas. Your _silk_ pyjamas!”

Sherlock pretended to ignore him as John picked up his mug and made for the kettle, flicking it on and turning back to lean against the counter while it boiled. “I mean… do you even own a pair of jeans?”

Sherlock shrugged huffily. “No, I like to remind myself that I am no longer an adolescent by wearing clothing designed for adults.”

“Shame,” John pondered. “You’d look fucking amazing in just a pair of jeans and a white shirt. Like a photo shoot for some posh French aftershave that I probably don’t pronounce right.”

“Your accent _is_ appalling, mon coeur,” Sherlock smiled, crossing the space between them to stand too close to be anything but crowding him.

“I’m amazed you allow yourself to be seen with me, heathen that I am with my Marks and Spencer shirts and my non-cashmere socks!”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock agreed, slowly insinuating his thigh into the non-existent space between John’s legs and making himself comfortable. “You do have some redeeming qualities though, if only we could dispense with your distressing need for boring clothing.”

“My clothes are boring? Well, what do you suggest?” John grinned at him, loving the playful side of Sherlock’s personality that had come out of hiding since they became flatmates. The humour and warmth that underlay Sherlock’s crisp diction and single-minded practicality was so obvious to him now that some days it amazed John that no one else saw what he saw – a brilliant man, a man who had almost superhuman focus when required, but who also had a gentle side, a wicked, dry sense of humour and a vulnerability that he hid with insults, sharp words and withering glares.

“Well, let’s start with the shirt and work down, shall we? See what comes up?” Sherlock began to unfasten John’s buttons and it wasn’t until much, much later that John remembered his need for tea.

 

II

A few sunny days later, and the papers were all declaring it an Indian summer. John was not going to complain as the leaves turned and began to fall without the usual accompanying drizzle and chilly mornings. It was mid-afternoon when he turned into Baker Street – his shift mercifully short that day. He wondered where Sherlock was and whether they still had time for a walk around Hyde Park before it got dark. Maybe they could grab an early dinner while they were out.

All was quiet when he entered the flat.

“Sherlock?” he called, hanging up his jacket.

“In here,” came Sherlock’s rumbling reply from the sitting room.

“I was wondering if you fancied…” John managed before his brain helpfully shut down.

Sherlock was sprawled in his chair, book in hand, perfect lips closed around the tip of his thumb where he worried at his nail with his teeth. So far, so Sherlock. What was not so run-of-the-mill was his clothing. Ink dark jeans clad legs that seemed to go on for an indecently long distance. A white linen shirt, slightly more full than he normally wore with the top three buttons left invitingly undone completed the look. His bare feet were kicked carelessly out before him on the rug and his raven curls, seeming wilder than ever, had John standing like an idiot, lips parted, staring.

Sherlock looked up. “Hello, John,” he smiled, all calculated innocence spoiled only by the sparkle in his disingenuous eyes and the way his lips quirked at the corner, which always gave him away when he was teasing. He laid down his book.

Closing the sitting room door behind him, John turned the key in the lock with a definitive snick. “I see you’ve been shopping,” he observed, quietly pleased that his voice didn’t squeak.

“Oh, these old things?” Sherlock asked, running a pale hand up the length of his thigh.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Damn him, the beautiful bastard.

And surely there was only so much that a red-blooded man in his prime could be expected to take? So when Sherlock’s thumbnail grazed the inseam of the denim all the way up to where the tightness of the material left very little to the imagination, John pounced. He wasn’t proud, but no man should have to endure such torment.

Sherlock half rose as if to meet him mid-way, but John was too fast. He crowded Sherlock back into his seat with a kiss that left no room for ambiguity and dug his fingers into his lover’s hair to hold their lips together as he went to his knees.

With his free hand he went straight for the bulge in Sherlock’s jeans, palming it and cupping the shape of him through the denim. Sherlock pulled his mouth away to moan, and John, being a gentleman and knowing how stiff and unyielding new denim could be, wasted no time in unbuttoning Sherlock’s jeans. A button fly – a brilliant idea – less chance of unwanted zip damage to places too sensitive to contemplate.

The head of Sherlock’s cock sprang eagerly from the confines of the denim, hard already, causing John to lick his lips and look askance at his boyfriend.

“Well, it proved more distracting than I anticipated. And you did say _just_ jeans and a white shirt,” Sherlock breathed unevenly, his voice a scratchy rumble.

“That I did, you beauty. That I did.”

Being not only a gentleman but also a man of medicine, John knew that Sherlock must be close to discomfort, as hard as he was, and as such he bent quickly to take the smooth head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth and began long slow sucks, alternating with soft licks at the bundle of nerves over his old circumcision scar.

Sherlock scooted down further into his seat and groaned. “Let me take these off so you can…”

John stilled Sherlock’s hands at the waistband of his jeans. “Not a chance until I’ve had time to fully… appreciate your arse in them, love.”

After all, what were a little discomfort and an awkward angle between friends? And when the payoff would be Sherlock’s spectacular arse in tight, dark denim, just waiting for John to ease them off his hips and sink deep, there was no contest at all. The jeans stayed.

Sherlock laid a gentle but possessive hand on his head, carding his fingers though his short hair as John smeared kisses down the length of him and pressed his nose to the cool skin of his balls, breathing the scent of him beneath the “new jeans” smell. Risking a glance up at him, John found Sherlock’s eyes were half-lidded and blissful. Without breaking that gaze, John took him back into his mouth and hollowed his cheeks, watching Sherlock’s head drop back and the tendons on his neck cord and strain as his spine arched into the sensation, willing himself further into John’s mouth.

John felt it would be churlish to refuse him and took him as deep as he could without choking. Sherlock, always so responsive, was soon gasping snatches of profanity. Slowly working his hand around Sherlock’s cock as he focussed on the head now, rolling his tongue roughly at the ridge below the crown where he was most sensitive. Sherlock jerked, mumbled his name in warning and then shuddered his way through his orgasm as John held him gently inside the warmth of his mouth.

He hummed his satisfaction as John released him and offered his lips up for Sherlock to kiss.

“If I’d known normal clothes were going to look like this on you, I would never have said a word,” John admitted a few long breathless kisses later, lingering over Sherlock’s lips, reluctant to lose contact even though his own need was a persistent, nagging ache by now.

“How so?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and smooth now as he breathed it into John’s mouth.

“Well if you drive me to distraction in pyjamas and wild with the urge to mess you up when you’re in a suit, I’m only giving you more ways to make you irresistible to me.”

Sinking back onto his knees, John adjusted himself without shame, catching the satisfaction in Sherlock’s gaze.

“Ah,” Sherlock smiled, “so I am the object of your downfall.”

“Since the day we met, love,” John admitted. “Now let me get a good look at those jeans on you, would you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John wasn’t blind, and he saw the way he preened a little as he stood for John’s approval, tucking himself cautiously back into his jeans but leaving the buttons unfastened.

“Over by the desk – the light is better there,” John suggested, standing up and moving back, letting a little of what he was thinking reach his eyes.

Sherlock’s answering smirk was a bold if misguided move. Spreading his arms in a graceful but theatrical gesture, he made a slow turn, showing off the fit of his clothing. The sleepy, just-come sultriness of his eyes was almost as distracting as the pink tinge on his cheeks from John’s attentions.

“Show off,” John growled.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, “…obviously!”

“Ah, love, what you do to me,” John groaned, his voice gravelly and desperate. He began to undress, his fingers fumbling in their haste.

“I was rather hoping it was what you’d do to me,” Sherlock replied and smiled when John abandoned the buttons on his own shirt in favour of dragging it over his head and letting it drop, unheeded to the floor.

John crossed the distance in two steps, reaching urgent hands to Sherlock’s hips to spin him back towards the window. He pinned Sherlock against the desk with his hip and fumbled with his own fly, drawing out his neglected cock.

“Lube?”

“Back pocket,” Sherlock hummed, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at John.

With a hand between his shoulder blades, John encouraged Sherlock to lean forward onto his elbows on the desk. He put aside the little plastic bottle he found where Sherlock said it would be and took a deep, calming breath as he slid his hands up Sherlock’s body, pushing aside the crisp, white linen of his shirt to reveal his back in all its angular glory. He licked a stripe up Sherlock’s spine, watching as the skin of his flanks tightened into goose pimples.

Hitching his thumbs into the waistband, John paused to appreciate the true beauty that was Sherlock Holmes’s arse in jeans. Only the fact that he knew what lay beneath the denim caused him to cut short his ruminations and draw them slowly down over Sherlock’s hips and tug them to sit snugly under said gorgeous arse.

With greedy hands, John left no inch of such pale perfection untouched, stroking and petting and pinching, dipping his fingertips between his cheeks and freezing the second he felt the unmistakable texture of lube.

“Oh, you beauty,” John breathed, and urgently tugged the tight jeans down Sherlock’s legs to pool at his ankles where Sherlock, wriggled and kicked until he had a foot free, giving John enough room to palm the cheek of his arse with one hand and guide the tip of his own dick to the glistening pucker of Sherlock’s hole with the other.

The bow and flex of his boyfriend’s spine was moving art as John sank into him slowly, a little at a time. Sherlock was quiet as they began, breathing deeply and evenly, letting his body speak for him as it accommodated John. Only when John was fully seated, did he murmur quiet words addressed to a god he didn’t believe in.

John set an easy pace, letting Sherlock’s moans and sighs tell him when to speed up or change angle. His head dropped into the curve of his arms on the desk, John could only see the back of Sherlock’s head and the way his thrusts made his curls bounce a little.

When he began to actively push back onto John’s cock with each stroke, John relaxed his self-control and began to press harder, deeper, faster, the noise of their skin slapping and their whispered grunts and encouragements drowning out the traffic and pedestrians on the sunlit street below.

John could feel the tension of his orgasm begin to build, tightening the muscles of his thighs and his belly, it hummed beneath his skin and spread a buzzing heat prickling up his sweaty spine, pulling him tighter and tighter before breaking over him and tumbling him into sweet release.

Panting against Sherlock’s back, John breathed open-mouthed kisses against his skin, tasting the tang of fresh sweat prickle across his lips and tongue.

He eased himself out of Sherlock and winced slightly at the feel of his release follow him. He bent and scooped up his wadded up shirt from the floor and made a token effort of wiping them both off, although he secretly thought that the sight of his come snaking slowly down the back of Sherlock’s thigh was one of the few things on Earth that enhanced the sight of those long, pale, muscular legs.

Sherlock slowly straightened up, stepped out of his ruined jeans and turned to John.  Stretching his back, he wrinkled up his nose reflecting that the change of posture had exacerbated the problem. He quirked a tiny smile.

“At least we found a use for your hideous shirt.”

John raised an eyebrow at him but allowed the kiss that followed, folding his arms around his sticky, half naked, semi-interested again _already_ boyfriend and once more thanking whatever trick of fate it was that allowed them to be there in that moment, right then.

“Come on, let’s go run a bath. I was thinking we might go out to dinner tonight. What do you think?”

“Well, now you’ve defiled my jeans, I don’t have any normal people clothes to wear out on a date,” Sherlock huffed with that twinkle in his eye. “I’d hate to embarrass you.”

“Looking as good as you did in those jeans, I will buy you any number of normal person clothes. And you could never embarrass me, love – not that that is to be taken as a challenge, you understand… Sherlock? …Love?”

But Sherlock was already disappearing into the bathroom leaving a trail of clothes in his wake, his own and John’s, with an entirely _different_ twinkle in his eye, and John felt a thrill of horrified anticipation.

The game, apparently, was on.

**Author's Note:**

> Can a line of PWPs with the most tenuous of links be described as a series? If so, that is what this should become, for Sherlock is devious and so head-over-heels for his blogger that he would brave even unto the perils of Marks and Spencer for him.  
> This is all the fault of 88thParallel who encourages me in such silliness so skilfully that I think these things are my idea! Thank you, sweetheart!  
> And, as always, this wouldn’t be possible without Pepe and Saladscream who are my dirtiest, dearest muse prodders and discussion partners. Love you girls. 
> 
> Title from Oscar Wilde.


End file.
